


The Turing Test

by Scappodaqui, stripyjamjar



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alan Turing Fanfic, Angst and Humor, Domestic Avengers, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gen, History, Iron Man does an Iron Man Triathlon, Jealous Steve Rogers, M/M, Post-Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie), Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Real Life History, Science Nerd Bucky Barnes, Steve Rogers' Star-Spangled Elbow, Track Star Bucky Barnes, Yep that's a thing, background Tony Stark/Pepper Potts - Freeform, real person fic, what are our lives
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-12
Updated: 2015-08-12
Packaged: 2018-04-14 09:27:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4559427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scappodaqui/pseuds/Scappodaqui, https://archiveofourown.org/users/stripyjamjar/pseuds/stripyjamjar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In 1944, Bucky Barnes goes for a run with Alan Turing.<br/>In 2016, Steve Rogers finally tells him he was incredibly jealous of their flirtation.<br/>(What flirtation? says Bucky.)<br/>Set while Steve, Bucky, and Sam help Tony Stark train for an actual Iron Man.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Turing Test

**England, May 1944.**

They’d made their way to Bletchley Park from Dover, captured Hydra codes in hand. There weren’t many out there who could decipher them. In fact, there might only be one. Jones and Carter had puzzled over them for a long time before they’d thrown in the towel. So: Alan Turing it was, at the Governmental Code and Cypher School, GC&CS, already at work on German naval codes. They had sent stuff to him before, but couldn’t risk this being intercepted. When they made their introductions, at first Bucky wasn’t sure what to make of the absent-looking, rumpled man, but it turned out Turing was a _runner_.

He let Bucky join him for an early ten-miler around the grounds, over the manicured green of the lawns. Turing ran like a maniac, face in a grimace. Gasping and wheezing for a quarter-mile of a time, then slowing to make perfectly placid conversation.

“Not a bad pace,” Turing told him during one of their slower intervals.

Bucky shrugged, sinking into his ground-eating loping jog--just under a seven-minute per mile pace, sedate to runners as conditioned as they were. “Half-miler,” he explained. “You a distance man?” He had the style, economical and gliding, at least from the waist down.

“The marathon--,” a choking rattle. Bucky stared, disconcerted, and almost tripped over a root. “--is the aim, someday.”

“Now that’s suffering,” Bucky said.

“It’s in the mind,” Turing told him, turning to spit phlegm to one side. “The focus required for every distance is adjusted to the task.”

“ _Yeah_ ,” Bucky said, “ _Yes--_ ” and threw in an exuberant surge, feet kicking up behind him in a neat, powerful sprint. He looked back. “One thing we trackies have,” he added, “Form; you could work on your knee lift.”

“I have other things on my mind,” Turing said. “Also some trouble with the right quadricep.”

“Ah.” Bucky nodded, commiserating. “Gotta--crack the code on that, huh?” A weak attempt at a joke. He found Turing even more intimidating than he did Howard Stark, to a guy from Brooklyn who hadn’t even been to college.

“Exactly right,” said Turing, a nod lost in the general uncoordinated bobble of his head as he ran. “We human beings are written in code, too. And talk in it, sometimes.”

Before Bucky could ask exactly what he meant they had sped up, a gradual increase in strain until their breath came in hard, low bursts. Bucky waited for Turing to break first but he didn’t. “Going--hard--” he said.

“It’s--a re _lease._ ”

“It is--an escape--” A spurt of fire raced through the muscles of his hips as he kicked it into higher gear for the next hundred-fifty yards, chest out and legs moving smooth and fast over the ground, striding it out; an escape.

They made it back to Bletchley sweaty and satisfied and both, it seemed, thoughtful, not having said much for the last tough three-odd miles. They went to the pantry to towel off, slug water, and munch ravenously on apples. Turing shook Bucky’s hand and pushed back a damp hank of hair. “Thank you,” Bucky said. Turing wore an odd grimace, and Bucky looked down to see the muscle over his knee contract in spasm.

“I told you it’s the blasted quadricep. The vastus medialis, to be precise,” Turing said. “There, you see, feel.” He made a gesture, and Bucky reached down to touch it, the hard muscle locked tight and vibrating. He bounced down to kneel next to Turing and dug in his thumb, trying to loosen the knot. Turing let out a sigh. “Ah. Thank you. I believe that muscle may be overdeveloped.”

“Form,” Bucky said again, drawing his hand back, sitting back on his heels, then standing up. “Do you do any weights work?”

“It’s the time,” Turing said, shrugging, running his eyes over Bucky the way Bucky had just done with him--they’d been sizing each other up in some way. “Haven’t time. I imagine you understand that.”

“Yeah,” Bucky said, sighing, turning to take a long swallow of water from the pewter mug he’d been using. “Time. Not that marching around carrying all our gear doesn’t count, ya know.”

“Now, then, have we all the copies of the cipher sorted for your Captain?”

Bucky started at the sudden change of topic and turned to see Steve over Turing’s shoulder, wavering in the doorway to the pantry. 

* * *

 

 **Avengers Headquarters, New York State, August 2016.**

****Steve knew better than to ignore a peace overture from Tony Stark. So, when Tony brashly and offhandedly announced in a press conference that _yes_ he’d complete an _actual Iron Man_ triathlon, Steve had thrown his support behind him. And he’d gotten Tony to donate the money he raised to StarkTech’s new functional prosthetics program--an olive branch proffered between Tony and Bucky, too.

Now Tony and Sam had become regular fixtures on his morning runs with Bucky, around the perimeter of the Avengers’ base.

“Jesus, man,” Sam said, to Bucky now, stumbling to a halt after he finished his third lap (and Steve and Bucky, their seventh). “You’re even faster than Cap. I didn’t know that was possible.”

“I let him win,” Steve muttered.

“Yeah, right,” Bucky said, holding his arms out from his sides and puffing out his chest, strutting backwards. “Like you’d do that. It’s all _technique,_ is what it is.”

Steve watched him posture, not entirely averse to Bucky’s pleased, teasing show. Bucky came alive after a good run; also, he wouldn’t shut up. Not that Steve minded. And if it sometimes seemed a little forced--a tiny pause while Bucky’s brow wrinkled like he was trying to think of the next of his lines in a play, his smile a little strained--Steve tried to let that go.

“It’s form,” Bucky went on, lecturing now. “I ran a 4:38 mile even before the Nazis pumped me fulla drugs. Let’s face it, what I got isn’t as good as you. You should be faster. You waste a lot of energy,” he told Steve. “Swinging those arms of yours, still. You keep your traps too tight.”

“Have you been reading _Men’s Health_ , or what?” Sam said. “Traps?”

“They had a [great interview with Steve](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3818749/chapters/8513683) in there,” Bucky said. “Apparently I remind him of Orson Welles. I mean. _Orson Welles?_ Orson _Welles_ , Steve? And I didn’t know you wanted to be on Project Runway.”

“That was Tony,” Steve said, rolling his eyes. “Hey, at least I didn’t say you remind me of Vivien _Leigh_.”

Bucky looked around. “Where _is_ Stark?”

“‘Bout a mile behind,” said Sam, fishing a bottle of water out from somewhere on his person and taking a long chug.

“You _knew_ that, Buck – we passed him three minutes ago.”

“Oh. Yeah.” Bucky shook sweat-damp strands of hair out of his eyes. The scrap of black elastic he’d been using as a makeshift tie had relinquished its grip before they’d finished their first lap and Steve hadn’t been unselfish enough to tell him. Instead he’d preferred to watch as the combination of the light breeze and Bucky’s determined momentum blew the newly loose hair back from his face as they raced side by side, before Bucky sprinted ahead to leave him at the end.

“Well. Shoulda stuck with yoga, shouldn’t he.” Bucky cracked a grin. “Or Pepper’s spin class.”

Steve looked at him, his mind still half-occupied with _Men’s Health_ and _that_ [interview](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3818749/chapters/8513683). Which apparently Bucky had read. And that realization was enough to have him wanting the subject to change right now, _immediately_ , before Bucky pounced back on it again like a kitten on a dried leaf.

“Thinkin’ about taking up spin class, Buck?” he inquired mildly, and Bucky must have heard something inherent in his tone, because he whipped his head up to scrutinise him through narrowed eyes.

“Nah, ‘cause–” Bucky began, wary, but Steve cut him off, squinting down the track as though the only thought on his mind was whether Tony had somehow got lost in the shrubbery.

“ _Because_ ,” –going all out, and actually raising one hand to shield his eyes against the low-slanting morning sunlight– “I didn’t think you were so hot. With the _spinning_.”

Bucky’s eyes widened. “Oh no, you _shit_ , you swore you wouldn’t–”

“Not in my lifetime, I said,” replied Steve, delighted that Bucky remembered what he was teasing him about. “And now barely counts as that. Twenty- _sixteen_.”

“You fucking tell Sam that story and _this_ lifetime’ll be–”

“Oh, _do_ tell Sam that story,” said Sam, glancing between them and rubbing his hands. “Unnaturally shortened lifespan seems like small price to pay.”

“So,” Steve started, with a grin, while Bucky groaned and flopped down on the grass behind him. “This guy gets bored, one spring, decides he’s gotta be good at something besides running. Takes up – what was it, discus, Buck?”

“Hammer throw.” Slightly muffled from under his arm.

“Oh yeah, that was it.”

“Like you’d forgotten, you bastard.”

“Hush up, you’re interrupting the, uh, narrative flow,” said Steve, turning back to where Sam was looking like Christmas had come early. “So we’re at track practice – well, Bucky’s track practice – and he’s trying his best to impress everyone watching, because he’s nothin’ but a poser, really – and he’s done a few solid throws and thinks, right, well, I’m okay at this.” 

“I _was_.”

“Yeah, sure you were. Beginners’ luck and all. So he steps up again, for like the fourth time, all cocksure and confident. And he starts spinning this thing round his head.”

* * *

 

Steve’s mind, of course, conjured up with perfect clarity the Bucky of circa 1933, mouth a lopsided grin swiftly settling into concentration as the weight slowly circled his head. Steve had a sheaf of paper in his lap but his pencil had lain unmoving for the past half hour and right at that second he’d forgotten he was even holding it. Bucky’s sweat was making his shirt cling damply to the contours of his body and the sleek muscles of his back undulated as he spun. At least, thought Steve in scrabbling desperation, at least everyone else’s watching too. A small part of his mind thought that perhaps he should glance over and make sure, but Bucky was speeding up, the long line of his body contracting and lengthening with seamless, heedless grace, and Steve was lost in it.

So utterly lost, in fact, that he barely noticed the slight shift in the way Bucky was moving until everything happened at once: Bucky’s eyes widened and his back wrenched at an angle and the hammer was all of a sudden spinning _him_. That graceful line became a tumbling whipcrack, the work of an instant and Bucky was grounded, landing hard on the unforgiving ground in a spray of sand.

The lapse in smoothness was enough to yank Steve out of the faintly worrying enclave of his mind into which he’d been sinking. He stumbled to his feet and peered, but Bucky was already getting up, swearing and rubbing furiously at his sand-coated behind. There was laughter coming from the gaggle of onlookers and Bucky joined in with a grin that only Steve saw was translucent.

“Good one, Buck,” he said as Bucky hauled himself over the fence and approached him. Embarrassment aside, it’d take more than one little tumble to make him stop their familiar ribbing.

“Shaddap.” Bucky flung himself down on the grass beside Steve and instantly groaned, rolling over and inadvertently displaying his sore backside.

“That’ll sting,” Steve commented glibly, taking up his pencil again as someone else hopped over the fence to pick up the discarded hammer. He received another muffled sound of discomfort in response; Bucky had buried his burning face in his arms and pressed both into the dusty grass.

“So, honestly. Which hurts more right now, your ass or your pride?”

Bucky turned his head just enough to free up his lips. “Screw you, punk.” Then something seemed to occur to him and he sat up, rubbing ineffectually at his lower back. “Whatcha sketching? You didn’t draw _that_ , didja?”

“No,” replied Steve warily. He was right to be: Bucky made a grab at the papers and Steve snatched them out of his reach. “I _didn’t_ , dammit. It was more than enough fun jus’ watchin’.”

“Well then. Show me.” Bucky had that inflexible look on his face that meant that although he wasn’t going to wrestle the papers off Steve right now, he was fully aware of his ability to do so.

Steve sighed and picked out a couple from the pile. “Here,” he said, turning his attention back to the couple of smudged lines he’d managed before Bucky’d sat up. The divot of a lower back and a little further, the beginning of a curve…

* * *

 

“And… what happened?” prompted Sam, and Steve jumped.

“Oh. Yeah. Uh. He, yeah, he fell over.” He rubbed at the back of his neck. “Spun right around like a top and went down.”

“And scrawny little punk-ass Stevie,” broke in Bucky, bouncing to his feet. “Fuckin’ _laughed_.”

Sam snorted. “Oh yeah?”

“Course I did,” said Steve, folding his arms and allowing himself the little luxuriant glance of fondness he’d been denied for too long. But only briefly, because there wasn’t a chance in hell that he was going to let ‘scrawny’ slide. Even though half of him wanted to wrap Bucky up in his arms for calling him ‘Stevie.’ “Jeez, Buck, the one time something doesn’t come easy to you and it’s like the world ended. You’re only _human_.”

Bucky shifted, uncomfortable, and Steve watched his teeth go to the tender bottom of his lip, the glint of metal from his left shoulder reflecting off his jaw. He took a breath and looked back up. “Yeah, okay, well, how about how bad you were with your shield when you first got it, knocking yourself in the chin. You didn’t take that well--”

“Sh--” Steve said. “Tony’s coming. Please, don’t give him any more to use against me.”

Bucky smiled suddenly and tipped his head back, hollered, “Steve Rogers is the greatest man I have ever known!”

Steve’s hands went to Bucky’s face on instinct but Bucky wasn’t finished; a metallic arm pinioned them together and Bucky yelled, “Also he’s hung like a–!”

And Steve clamped one hand over his mouth before any further damage was done.

The three of them watched Tony round a corner, his mouth a grim slash, before he broke into his habitual sharp, easy grin upon spotting them. He opened his mouth and given the circumstances of his arrival (and the fact he was well within earshot of Bucky’s gleeful shouts), Steve fully expected a jibe of _some_ kind. Instead, all they got was a crooked smile, Tony’s lips pale against the ruddiness of his skin. The contrast was striking despite his facial hair. His jog to meet them was slow, his strides a little shortened.

“Having fun there, kids?” he inquired, but the words were uncharacteristically clipped.

“Looking good, Stark,” Bucky said, and Steve stared at him in surprise, not expecting the gentleness, all the more of a contrast after the merciless yell he’d just been projecting. The two of them often clashed, and, of course, there was the matter of Stark’s parents… “Smooth.”

Tony gave him a skeptical look, too breathless, for once, to say something acerbic.

“No, it was,” Bucky insisted. “Hell, you shoulda seen Alan _Turing_ run.”

“Hold up,” Tony said, apparently not too winded for an indrawn breath of shock. “Backpedal for a sec, Sarge. You met Alan Turing?”

“Yes,” Steve said, shortly, before Bucky could answer.

“ _The_ Alan Turing.”

Another cold stare. “Yes.”

Tony blinked but Steve turned away and started to take a few steps back toward the Avengers compound. His legs were aching (fine, so he _had_ been racing Bucky) and Tony caught up with him within about three seconds.

“Alan,” Tony said, his hands working furiously, “motherfucking… Turing Test... _Turing_.”

“That’s pretty cool,” said Sam, half a step behind them. “What was he like?”

Steve shrugged and Tony _exploded_.

“And you didn’t think of telling me this before _why_?!” He threw up his hands in exasperation..

“Was it important?” Steve attempted to keep his voice serene. He knew full well how maddening he was being. Didn’t care.

“Steve didn’t like him for some reason,” Bucky put in, rubbing at the joint of his metal arm at the shoulder, twisting his head to one side. “I thought he was great. Ran like a crazy man--fast, but all over the place. Made all these noises. And smart--forget about that, the stuff I tried to read from that library; and he broke that code we dug up from the Hydra sub like _that_.” A snap of his metal fingers.

“ _All these noises?_ ” Steve echoed, striving to keep his voice quiet. Clamp down on the lid of it, seal it shut.

“Yeah, worse than Tony, I mean, _you’ve_ got an excuse,” Bucky told him, referring to his compromised oxygen capacity from the shrapnel in his chest. To Steve: “What? What’sa matter?”

Steve’s arms had folded themselves across his chest without his consent and he grimaced, knowing that the gesture was the most involuntarily surefire way of letting Bucky know that he was right. “Nothing,” he said anyway, bracing himself for the inevitable backlash.

“Waiiiit a minute,” Tony drawled, eyebrows raised in dawning delight. “Barnes…. did you _hit that?_ Did you--did _you_ pass the Turing Test? Did you… _crack the Enigma code_?”

“No idea,” muttered Steve, hating this, hating running, hating the air. “How to – _crack_ –”

“What?” Bucky said, looking back and forth between Tony and Sam, who was hiding a bark of laughter behind his towel. “Don’t be stupid.”

“ _He’s_ not the stupid one here,” said Steve. 

“You’re stupid. I didn’t do anything! We went for a run!”

“Yeah, just like you and Steve go for runs,” snickered Tony.

“There are platonic runs,” put in Sam. “Though admittedly, Rogers, that time on the Mall, I did kinda think you might be trying a line on me…”

“What the _fuck_ , Steve.” Bucky raised an eyebrow. His arm gave a background, slightly sinister whir.

“You’re one to talk,” Steve retorted, wishing Tony’s grin wasn’t quite so wide. “Hand on his _leg_.”

“He had a cramp…” Bucky’s brow furrowed; he looked at Steve, and then away, as if it had _really_ just occurred to him. “... oh, wow. Okay. I see it now. Oh, boy.”

“No,” said Steve. “Uh-uh. You don’t see it at all.”

(“This is great,” Tony said to Sam, out of the side of his mouth. “Better than the Kardashians.” Sam nodded raptly.)

“But I do,” and Bucky looked at him with wonder that swiftly morphed into wickedness. “Huh, so the great Alan Turing was like _that_ , eh. In my defense, Steve, I’d kinda only just figured out _I_ was…”

“Oh. Yeah. Before that, you never flirted in your life.”

“Ha. I didn’t know my ass from my elbow at that point--or anyone else’s, for that matter. ‘Sides. I don’t recall you being all that good at sweet talk, buddy. Pretty sure _we_ skipped flirting and just--” He cut off with a sharp breath as Steve thwacked him with a twisted knot of towel.

“Sure hope he knows his ass from his elbow now,” put in Tony, aslant, to Sam. “For _both_ their sakes.”

“Which elbow?” Bucky commented, brandishing the metal one. “‘Cause I definitely--”

But whatever he knew was abruptly silenced as Steve’s hand snaked behind him to grab his ass and _squeeze_ , none too gently.

Tony gawped.

“ _That_ elbow, Buck,” Steve said, honey-sweet.

Weakly, Bucky nodded. “That’s the one.”

“Whereas I wouldn’t _dream_ of grabbing anything else. Not in public.”

“Uh-huh, says _you_ ,” muttered Sam.

But Bucky had regained control over his voice and said brightly: “Front page news. Captain America and his glorious star-spangled–”

“ _Elbow_ ,” finished Steve, firmly. Grinning.

Sam snorted, and Tony was utterly gone, wheezing and coughing with mirth. He straightened, one arm curled around his midriff.

“Shit,” Sam said, watching Tony’s convulsions, “you guys should do a workout DVD or something. Stark, you oughtta get back in touch with _Men’s Health_. This has got to be the best ab workout you've had in years.”

"Nobody say ‘it’s the only ab workout you’ve had in years.’ We can’t all be enhanced supersoldiers,” Tony said.

“Hey, I work for _this_ business,” Sam said, gesturing up and down himself.

“And Steve appreciates it,” Bucky said drily.

Steve dragged his eyes across Sam’s torso, nodding in consideration. “Sure do,” he said in his best bouncing wholesome all-American twang.

Sam winked back, shameless.

Bucky whistled. “Geez, back in the _olden_ days you didn’t inspect the troops like that."

“Welcome to 2016, Popsicle the Second,” Tony said.

“Gee whiz, golly gosh,” Bucky deadpanned. “I’m not in Kansas anymore, et cetera. So what happened to old Alan, anyhow? Did he keep on cracking codes?”

Sam’s easy smile dropped, and Tony shook his head. “Not so much,” he began, suddenly tense.

“He and your dad were friends, right?” Steve said. “I can’t believe I never looked him up--well, I _can_ \--” Glancing at Bucky, thinking how, after all, he’d tried not to think about it even then. Feeling guilt at his own selfishness.

“They were. Turing even did some work with him on trying to improve the serum,” Tony said, raising an eyebrow at Steve. “Actually. Morphogenesis, from the mathematical perspective, anyway. Who knows--we could’ve had more supersoldiers running circles around me by now if--”

“If _what_?” Bucky said sharply.

“Well, in… what was it, ‘52?” Tony lifted his GPS watch, with linkage to the rebuilt JARVIS, to his mouth. _”Yes, sir, 1952. The prosecution of--”_

“Thanks, I can take it from here,” Tony said, cutting off the program. He went on. “My dad was actually working with him on a computer, and Turing was seeing this man at the time.” Steve was surprised Tony hadn’t resorted to worse euphemism. “A lot younger, something like that. Yeah, yeah. I’m not one to talk. Anyway, they prosecuted him for indecency and he picked chemical castration, and…”

Steve sucked in his breath, wondering: could Stark have helped? Remembered something Howard had said to Bucky when he saw him looking at Steve across the tent, while Steve had pretended to stay absorbed in fiddling with the new shield design. Bucky had said, I’m a great admirer of your work, and Howard had said, I can see that.

Sam put a hand on his shoulder. Bucky, meanwhile, just stared very intently at Stark. “And,” he said, emotionless.

“... and then I guess he killed himself. We don’t know, he wasn’t working with the government anymore, he lost his security clearance, and I don’t think he and my dad stayed in touch. Cyanide poisoning in an apple. Very Socrates or--uh, Snow White. It’s a shame. Dad said it’s how things were back then--men were men, supposed to be. Like I said, welcome to 2016, things’re better now.”

“Tony,” Sam said, “you probably should’ve shut up about four sentences ago.”

Bucky had stalked off a few steps and Steve stared helplessly after him. Sometimes he still got that look on his face, that thousand-yard stare, like he could see through the air to a horizon where Steve couldn’t follow. When he turned back around, he was rubbing his metal hand over his eyes, thumb digging into the tenderness of his own skin.

“I remembered--” Bucky started. “You know how you shoot the shit when you run with someone? Yeah--he got to talking about the soul somehow. Just--he had the idea it could last, say, in a machine or some… fuckin’... thing. Codes. Electrical impulses. Like even if your body--Steve, I was never like you with the religious stuff--”

“It’s _okay_ ,” Steve said, stepping closer, hating the fact that his mind threw up Zola’s face in glowing greenish algorithms, flying mockingly across a mud-coloured screen. Bucky let out a small noise, and Steve very gently touched the back of his right hand, unsure if he even felt it. He wanted to say more, something comforting – but Bucky moved away, peering towards Tony.

“The Turing Test, that’s if a machine can pass for human,” he said, “Like JARVIS or Vision. Right?”

Tony said, “Ri-ight.”

“Steve,” Bucky said, turning back to him, “You think I’d pass?”

“James B. Barnes,” Sam said, “Only a human would ask such a stupid question.”

“You don’t gotta pass any tests,” Steve said. “You’re good.”

**Author's Note:**

> -Credit for the idea of Steve and Bucky meeting Turing--and telling Tony about it--goes to [Lena7142](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Lena7142/pseuds/Lena7142).
> 
> -This is set post-Civil War where it all winds up fine and the Avengers get back together. Also: Steve and Bucky were in a relationship during the war, but Bucky had never slept with another man (this is [If-verse](http://archiveofourown.org/series/261475)) and had less experience with that side of his sexuality than did Steve. Hence his obliviousness to Turing’s flirtation.
> 
> -[Wikipedia on Alan Turing](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Alan_Turing). He really did do research into morphogenesis, along with early artificial intelligence, and he did have a fascination with the soul.
> 
> -Alan Turing was [a very good runner](http://www-history.mcs.st-and.ac.uk/Extras/Turing_running.html); he almost made the Olympic team. Here is a discussion of his running. Scappodaqui tried to portray his running style and injury-proneness accurately. He really did describe running as ‘a release.’
> 
> -We have Bucky here as a former 880 yard runner. Having very…. very carefully examined Sebastian Stan’s physiology, stripyjamjar and Scappodaqui concluded that he’d do best at the long sprints and middle-distance--not really long-distance. (You can be fairly solid, with thick thighs, and be a good 880-yard runner. Scappodaqui is an example of this herself. (And stripyjamjar is absolutely not.))
> 
> -Anyway, Bucky is being a bit competitive even with Turing. A middle-distance runner throwing a surge at a long-distance runner--the mid-d guy will come out on top every time--but to be fair, Turing’s been wearing him down with the longer intervals. So, yeah, Bucky: always competitive.
> 
> -We had too much fun writing this. Thank you for indulging us by reading!


End file.
